


Danger Zone

by soufflegirl91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, overprotective Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-10-29 04:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soufflegirl91/pseuds/soufflegirl91
Summary: Written for the prompt "5 times Bond puts himself between Q and perceived danger and one time Q returns the favour."





	1. Gurney

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Celyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celyan/gifts).

> This fic is a gift for the lovely Celyan, and I've had so much fun writing it. The first 4 chapters are complete, so I will probably post around once a week.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful Christinefromsherwood for being an awesome beta :)
> 
> This is my first proper solo WIP, so let me know what you think in the comments!

The whole thing started because of Dhaka. 

Well, that wasn’t _ strictly _ true. It started because 003 had been sent on a mission to Dhaka which had gone tits up, resulting in 007 being sent out to retrieve him (alive, barely) and Q staying up for 72 hours straight, drinking far too much tea and not eating nearly enough. When Bond arrived in Q branch to check in his weapon, he found Q looking like death warmed up, swaying alarmingly when he tried to stand up. 

“When was the last time you slept?”

“In case it escaped your attention, 007, the past two days have been rather trying.”

“Try three days, Q.”

Q looked confused, then glanced at his watch. He blinked, obviously not able to read the digital numbers glaring at him at first, then blinked again in surprise as they registered. 

“Oh," said Q, dumbly.

Bond sighed. So much for dropping off his gun, flirting harmlessly with Q and then going home to crash. His conscience, and his growing respect and appreciation for Q, wouldn’t let him rest if he just went home. First things first. 

He gave the Quartermaster a thorough once over, noticing now that he was looking out for them the signs that Q hadn’t left his branch in far too long. The bags under his eyes were so large they were practically suitcases, obvious even from behind his glasses. Q’s clothes were beyond rumpled, suit jacket and tie long abandoned, with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up and what looked like at least three teastains of different shades. Clothes not changed in a while, then. His hair, always wild, had reached the ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’ stage and, though Bond would never admit to noticing, looked greasy enough to suggest that there hadn’t been time for a shower recently. The lack of takeaway containers in his wastebasket did not bode well, and Bond was sure that the only reason that Q’s desk held only three empty mugs had more to do with the lack of available spares than the lack of refills. 

All in all, Bond was amazed that Q was still standing. For a given definition of ‘standing’, at least. What Q needed was sleep, fluids and nutrients. Unfortunately, Bond didn’t think Q was capable of finding his way out of the office in this state, let alone back to his home. A quick glance at Q’s shaking hands tapping incessantly on the desk answered the question of whether the amount of caffeine in his system would allow him to fall asleep naturally. Clearly, a sedative would be in order. 

“Come on.” Bond nodded at Q, then at the door. 

“007? I thought you were here to return your equipment?” Q even _ sounded _ exhausted. A well-rested Q would never have allowed himself to sound so confused in front of an agent.

“R can take my gun,” said Bond, gesturing to R, who smoothly took the hint and approached with an equipment tray, “you need a break.” 

Q’s expression turned stubborn, and he visibly forced himself to stand up straight.

“Your concern is appreciated, 007, however I won’t be going anywhere until I hear from Dr Morgan about 003’s condition.” 

Whilst Bond could and did admire the Quartermaster’s dedication to his agents, the fact that he could see Q’s muscles trembling with the effort of holding him upright rather put a damper on the situation. Bond glanced again at R, who nodded emphatically at the door with a rather desperate look in her eyes. The kind of look that came from having a boss who didn’t know when to call it a day.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“You’ll be able to get an update right away if you come with me to medical,” wheedled Bond, “I was just headed that way myself. For my post-mission check-up.” 

If Q had been even slightly more awake, he’d have recognized the ruse for what it was. As it was, he just narrowed his eyes at Bond.

“Are you injured?”

“No, Q, just a couple of bruises. But I’d rather get my check-up out of the way now than have to come in early tomorrow. If you come too, you can get a status update on 003.” _ And Dr Morgan can sedate you and put you on an IV drip until it’s safe to let you out of the building without getting yourself kidnapped or run over, _ Bond didn’t finish aloud. 

Q sighed, rubbing his temples in what Bond would bet was an attempt to ward off the kind of headache that came from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. He had experienced those headaches himself after long stakeouts, and knew that no amount of temple-rubbing would help. The only thing that would make the headache go away was sleep and lots of non-caffeinated fluids. Not that Q would accept that. Any guilt Bond might have felt about deceiving the Quartermaster was quashed by the knowledge that Q couldn’t be effective at his job in this state, and would never forgive himself if something were to happen. 

“Very well, Bond. That is actually a sensible idea, coming from you.” Q’s acerbic wit and sharp sarcasm appeared to have left him as, despite his words, his tone just sounded exhausted. Bond smothered a smile. Q would never let him live it down if Bond told him how adorable he was when he was tired. 

As Q packed away his laptop and gathered his things, Bond made himself useful by taking Q’s empty mugs over to the Q branch kitchenette and loading the dishwasher. It never hurt to gain some brownie points with the boffins, and anyone not currently in the branch would never believe that he had done it in the first place. Bond didn’t really hold with the idea that the double-ohs were ‘too good’ to help out with menial tasks when they needed doing, but apparently that was the general opinion held by most of Q branch. 

They made their way to the elevator bank, thankfully not having to wait long at this time of night. Pressing the button for Medical, Bond watched out of the corner of his eye as Q slumped wearily against the back wall. When the doors opened with a ping, Q visibly shook himself back to attention, clearing his throat awkwardly and studiously not meeting Bond’s eye. Clearly, he didn’t want Bond to acknowledge the fact that Q had almost fallen asleep standing up during a two-minute elevator ride. 

Entering the medical wing through a set of heavy double doors, Bond noticed how Q looked even worse in the stark neon lights than he had in the softer lighting of Q branch. Bond was now fairly sure that he wouldn’t even have to convince Dr Morgan to confine Q to a bed for 12 hours, just looking at him would do the job. Bond tried to ignore the flicker of worry that passed through his mind at Q’s sorry state, knowing that there was nothing he could have done to change it. At least this way, Q was guaranteed some rest and wouldn’t be back in his branch after the power nap he no doubt intended once the caffeine wore off enough to let him get to sleep. Privately, Bond thought that if Q attempted a power nap, it would still turn into a full 8 hours. There was only so long a body could stay awake, after all.

As they approached the end of the corridor, leading left toward the beds and minor treatment rooms, and right towards the operating theatre, Bond could just about make out hushed voices and what he thought sounded like squeaky wheels. When they reached the corner, Q, in a daze of exhaustion, merely turned left on autopilot. Bond, far more alert, looked to the right before turning, just in time to see the doors of the operating theatre open, two nurses pushing a gurney. 

The nursing staff were understandably keeping an eye on their patient, presumably 003, and glancing ahead to make sure the way immediately in front was clear. Q, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to have registered the noise. He continued slowly making his way down the… middle of the corridor. Shit. At this rate, the gurney would be on Q before Q had noticed it, and the width of the corridor made it a lot harder for the nurses to avoid Q than for Q to get out of the way. 

Muttering under his breath about ridiculous Quartermasters, Bond rushed over to Q, grabbing his shoulders and bodily forcing him over to the wall. He crowded Q up against the wall, shielding Q with his body as the gurney and nurses passed closely behind his back. Bond let out a sigh of relief, resting his cheek briefly against the top of Q’s head.

“Huh?” Q mumbled in confusion against Bond’s chest. 

Taking a step back, Bond released Q’s shoulders. 

“You know, Quartermaster, you really should pay attention to your surroundings,” he said with wry humour, “you never know when you might get run over by a gurney.” 

Q nodded in acknowledgment, but then a strange look came over his face. He seemed to have gone even paler.

“007, I really think I need to sit-” 

Q fainted dead away. Only the fact that Bond was still within arm’s reach stopped him from dropping to the floor. 

Carefully repositioning Q into a bridal carry (and resolutely forcing himself _ not _ to think about that too hard), Bond mused to himself that at least he wouldn’t need to convince Q to stay in medical. 


	2. Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond goes down to Q branch to help out, and is very disturbed by what he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on chapter 1, and for turning up to chapter 2! I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. I'd love to read your guesses about the other "dangers" that might come up, or how you think Q and Bond's colleagues at MI6 are reacting to Bond's knight-in-shining-armour syndrome.
> 
> Thanks again to christinefromsherwood for being my beta :)

By tacit agreement, Bond and Q had both decided never to mention The Gurney Incident. Bond had made sure not to be around when, after 12 hours of medically-induced sleep, Q was informed in no uncertain terms that if he tried to get into the building for the next 48 hours, Dr Morgan would happily re-admit him. For a week. 

Thankfully, 003 had come through surgery and was well on the mend. He would be out of commission for a few months while his injuries healed, but there wouldn’t be any permanent damage more than a few new scars. Bond had actually made a point of reading the medical report that had been submitted along with his mission report, and would admit to being relieved. Seeing the other double-ohs injured or worse was never a good feeling. It was always an unwelcome reminder of his own mortality. Bond may not want to settle down and leave field work behind yet, but he’d do his best to make sure the others were able to make that choice for themselves. That was one thing he and Q agreed on, even if they had never spoken about it. 

After the Dhaka mission, there was a bit of a lull in double-oh grade missions. The lower level field agents, and those deep undercover were still as busy as ever, but Bond found himself at a bit of a loose end. After a week of desk duty, he had even managed to catch up with all of the overdue paperwork he had been putting off. Bond was just considering heading down to the gym to terrorise some of the trainee agents, when his email pinged. 

_ Bond, _

_ I know it’s all quiet on the double-oh front at the moment. Shocked as I am that you’ve finished your paperwork, we could always use an extra hand in Q branch. I have some weapons that need testing, if you’re up for it?  _

_ If you’re interested, come down at 2.30pm.  _

_ -Q _

Deciding that it was best not to ask how Q had found out about the paperwork situation, Bond quickly sent off his reply.

_ See you then.  _

_ -JB _

That gave him three hours before he needed to report to Q branch. Suddenly, the idea of terrorising trainees was less appealing. With a sneaking suspicion that working on weapons development would mean Q once again forgetting that lunch was a thing, Bond decided to go for a walk in the early spring sunlight and to pick up some lunch for his Quartermaster. 

After a relaxing stroll around Battersea Park (which Bond definitely  _ didn’t _ spend thinking about Q and how endearing his dedication to his job was, and how Bond really should get around to stepping up the flirting and asking him out one of these days), Bond returned to MI6. He had stopped at one of the nicer local cafes on the way back, and carried a bag containing two freshly-made sandwiches and a piece of millionaire’s shortbread for Q. The Quartermaster’s sweet tooth was as well-known as his dedication to the job. It was only 2.15, but he decided that arriving fifteen minutes early wouldn’t do any harm. 

Not seeing Q anywhere on the floor, Bond approached R’s desk. 

“Don’t tell me Q actually took a lunch break?” he asked. 

R didn’t startle. Bond wasn’t sure how she did it, but the woman had nerves of steel. To his knowledge, no double-oh agent had ever managed to sneak up on her. 

“You’re early, Bond,” R replied. “He’s in the explosives lab at the moment. You can head on down there, it’s on the way to the ballistics range, anyway. I’ll let Q know you’re on your way.” R turned back to her computer. Bond took that as his dismissal and headed towards the pass-controlled doors that led to the weapons labs. 

He wondered what kind of weapons he would be testing. Last Bond had heard, Q branch was working on a new laser sight for his preferred model of sniper rifle, but he had also heard rumour that Q himself had been working on specialised ammunition for the Walther. Although knowing Q, the Quartermaster had started that rumour himself and merely planned to make good on his threat to arm Bond with a paintball gun. Bond had tried to tell him that the komodo dragon incident wasn’t  _ his _ fault, but Q wasn’t having any of it. 

Seeing that the door to the explosives lab was open, Bond assumed that Q wasn’t working on anything sensitive. He knocked lightly on the doorframe as he entered. The Quartermaster had his back to the door, bending over something on the table. 

“007,” greeted Q without looking up from whatever he was doing, “be with you in just a moment.”

Bond approached Q, peering over his shoulder to see what he was working on. 

The sight was almost enough to give him a heart attack. 

The first thing he noticed was the wiring. A tangle of red, blue and green wiring wrapped around a lump of… something. 

The second thing he noticed was Q’s slender fingers wrapped around a pair of wire cutters, hovering between a red wire and a blue wire but carefully not touching either. 

The final thing he noticed, which was the thing that made his heart lurch painfully in his chest, was the digital timer.

This bomb hadn’t been disarmed yet. It was counting down.

0:12

0:11

0:10

Without thinking twice, Bond dropped the lunch bag, grabbed Q’s arm and hauled him away from the table.

“James, wha-” Q started to speak, only to be cut off as Bond wrapped his other arm around Q’s waist and actually  _ lifted _ him off the ground and pulled him out of the room. With the hand that had been on Q’s shoulder, he just managed to grab the handle and pull the door to the explosive lab closed behind them. 

Getting a better grip on his Quartermaster, Bond started to run away from the lab. 

“Bond, put me down!” Q yelped. Bond ignored him. His internal timer was continuing the countdown. 

Had the explosive labs actually been tested with a live bomb? He hoped so. Looming ahead of him was the sealed door out to the main bullpen. There wasn’t enough time to fish out a pass to get through. Taking the only course of action to him, Bond crowded Q up in the corner between the wall and the door, shielding Q as well as he could.

0:02

0:01

0:00

Nothing. 

There was no sound, aside from their heavy breathing. Even if the shielding was fully effective at keeping the explosion contained, Bond would have expected to hear  _ something _ . The silence was… disconcerting. 

After a few seconds, Q started wriggling to get out of Bond’s hold.

“007, what on earth is going on?” Not exactly the words Bond had expected to hear after taking someone out of the range of a live explosive.

Bond stepped back, now uncertain.

“Well?” Q asked, folding his arms and giving Bond his full-blown Quartermaster Stare. 

“The bomb,” Bond started haltingly, “it only had a few seconds left. You didn’t seem to know which wire to cut.” 

Q stared at bond incredulously.

“James Bond,” he started. Uh oh. The full name treatment never boded well, “are you telling me that you honestly believe that I would put my staff at risk by attempting to defuse a live bomb with the  _ door open _ ?”

Well, when he put it like that, it had seemed a bit odd, but Bond’s lizard brain hadn’t exactly given him time to think about it.

“...No?” he ventured. 

“No,” Q agreed, though he didn’t let up on the judgmental stare. “If you had arrived  _ on time _ ,” he continued, “I would have put the bomb away before you got here. It’s a dummy bomb, for training. The trainee field agents are about to start their explosives module. I was doing final testing to make sure there were no issues with the connections.”

Ah. That… made a lot of sense, actually. Q would never be so reckless as to stay in the room with a bomb he couldn’t defuse. If he didn’t know how to stop it, he’d clear the area as well as he could. 

“Now I’ll have to test it again,” Q griped.

“Sorry,” said Bond, a little contritely. “If it’s any consolation, I bought you lunch?” 

Q’s expression brightened. 

“Coronation chicken?” he asked, hopefully. 

“And a millionaire’s shortbread,” Bond replied with a smile. His smile dimmed a bit as he remembered, “though it is currently on the floor of the explosives lab.”

Q shrugged. A well-wrapped sandwich could take being dropped on the floor without too many issues. 

“Come along then, 007,” he said, marching back towards the lab with a spring in his step, “millionaire’s shortbread waits for no man.”

Bond chuckled and followed after his Quartermaster. His chuckle turned into a full belly laugh when they reached the ‘bomb’ and he saw the scrolling message that had replaced the countdown:

XXX U R DED. DO BETTER XXX


	3. Mugger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finally making sure his fake bomb works, Q gets to test the trainees. Bond decides that Q needs an extra opinion, and apparently a pub quiz teammate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Christinefromsherwood for beta reading. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!

Taking advantage of the lull in double-oh missions, Bond decided to “observe” the trainee field agents while they did their bomb-defusing tests. Selling it to Tanner as _ really, don’t you think it’s important to get a senior double-oh’s opinion on these people? We know what it takes to survive in the job, after all _. Tanner had graciously not commented on Bond’s sudden desire to get involved in training, especially the one test that would be overseen by Q himself. 

The tests were to take place in one of the interrogation rooms. That would allow Q (and now Bond) to observe the trainees during the test without making them feel like there was someone breathing down their necks. 

Over the course of the day, one after the other, the prospective agents would have 30 minutes to disarm the bomb. From the observation room, Q would provide limited comms support. Rather like a live-action logic puzzle, Q would give enough information for the trainees to be able to work out how to disarm the bomb themselves, but he wouldn’t actually instruct them.

Unlike Bond a few days previously, the trainees knew that the bomb wasn’t a real explosive, however they were well aware that getting to the next stage of training was contingent on passing the bomb test. They would be given two attempts, and if they failed both, they were out of the programme. 

The first two went well enough. Trainee Robertson, a petite blonde with a Liverpool accent, had managed to disarm the bomb in 27 minutes. Trainee Zahid, a tall young man from Birmingham, had taken it right to the wire at 29 minutes and 12 seconds, but the only pass criteria at this stage was to disarm the bomb before the timer ran out and without accidentally setting it off any earlier. Two down, 10 to go. 

The third trainee was not doing so well. A dark haired young man with the kind of accent and attitude that suggested Eton or Harrow education, Simmonds seemed not to be listening to Q’s information. There were four minutes left on the clock, and he hadn’t made anywhere near enough progress.

“As I said before, Trainee Simmonds, our intel suggests that the timer is connected with a pressure sensor.” Bond had to hand it to Q, he was remarkably calm. He had a sudden, unwelcome thought that Q thought this was what it was like to work with _ him _, but consoled himself with the knowledge that he always took Q’s advice seriously, even if he didn’t always follow it. 

“Mmmhmmm,” replied Simmonds, disinterestedly. He was focused on the wire connecting to the timer, not the wires connecting the power source to the ‘explosive’ - as he had been for the past… oh, coming up to 27 minutes, now. 

“If you attempt to remove the timer, you’ll only manage to -” Before Q could finish his sentence, the trainee had removed his earpiece and thrown it across the room. 

“Well!” Q huffed. “If by any miracle he _ does _ disarm the bomb, Simmonds will find himself with a disciplinary meeting. We need agents who listen to us.” 

Bond glanced at Q a bit guiltily. Q noticed, and smiled at Bond warmly.

“Agents who only go off on their own when they know something we don’t,” Q continued, “just you watch, he’s going to rip the timer off next.”

They both turned back to Trainee Simmonds, who had indeed turned his efforts to forcibly ripping the timer from the bomb. 

“Ha!” he pulled it away with a cry of triumph, only to drop it immediately, cradling his hand to his chest. 

“Electric shock.” Q explained to Bond with a smirk. He leant over to press the button for the room’s intercom, clearing his throat and announcing in his dryest tone:

“BOOM.” 

Bond chuckled, quietly.

“Congratulations, Trainee Simmonds,” Q continued, sardonically, “you’ve just blown up Buckingham Palace. Report back at 15.30 for your final attempt.” 

Simmonds stormed out of the room, swearing loudly. 

“Well, he doesn’t exactly seem to be what we’re looking for in a field agent,” Bond commented. Q turned to him, eyebrows raised.

“Are you telling me that you were any different at his age?” 

Bond shrugged noncommittally.

“I’d been in the Navy for years by the time I was his age. I knew damn well how to follow orders and to listen to senior officers.” 

“Oh, so it’s only since joining MI6 that you’ve become difficult, then.” Q laughed, but his smile was kind. He and Bond both knew that the times Bond went off on his own were for a good reason. “Still, you’re right. Simmonds isn’t exactly what we’re looking for. Even if he passes his second attempt, my recommendation will be for him to be dropped from the programme. That will be up to M and Tanner, however.”

The rest of the morning passed less eventfully. Of the six trainees they saw in the morning session, only Simmonds and one other trainee, Westley, failed. 

“She was only a few seconds out,” Q said after Westley had been given ‘XXX U R DED. DO BETTER XXX’, “she’ll fly through in her second attempt.” 

Despite Bond’s efforts to convince him out to lunch, Q had begged off, stating that he needed to check in with his branch. Not wanting to go out into the rain by himself, Bond decided to eat a solitary lunch in the MI6 canteen, a decision he regretted about three bites into his sad excuse for spaghetti bolognese. 

“Right,” Q said as he set up the first test of the afternoon, “we have four more first attempts, then second attempts from Simmonds and Westley. I’d estimate we’re likely to get one, maybe two, more failures. Worst case scenario, they all fail and we’ll be here until half past six, but I hope we’ll be done by around five.” 

“I have nowhere to be. Why, do you have big plans for this evening?” Bond asked. Q blushed.

“Nothing interesting, I’m afraid. But there’s a pub quiz I try to get to on a Wednesday. Although my usual team mates are on holiday this week, so I might not bother going.”

“Worried you won’t win all by yourself?” joked Bond. Q laughed.

“Worried they won’t let me back in if I don’t even try to make it look like a team effort, more like.” Q shrugged. “Actually, I’m joking. My friends are always better off at the sports and music rounds than I am. Without them, I don’t stand much chance.” 

The opportunity was too good to pass up. Bond had been enjoying Q’s company today and for the past few days in Q branch, and he wasn’t ready to give it up. Maybe this way, he could actually get to know his Quartermaster outside of work a bit better, too.

“You know, Q,” he said casually, “sports and music are actually my strongest subjects when it comes to pub quizzes.” 

“You do pub quizzes?” Q asked skeptically.

“I have been known to do so, yes,” Bond replied, pretending to be affronted. “Though it has been quite a while. I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Q smiled. “The quiz doesn’t start until 8, but I usually get dinner at the pub first.” 

Bond grinned, happily. 

“That sounds like an excellent plan to me, Quartermaster. Let’s hope this lot don’t all fail then, shall we?” 

As it happened, Q’s estimate was right and only one more trainee failed their first attempt. Chang had been further out than Westley, but had managed not to set the bomb off before the timer ran out, so Q was hopeful that he would pass the second time around.

Q had seemed pleased when the second to last trainee, Friedman, managed to disarm her bomb after 21 minutes. She was by far the quickest success of the day, and had picked up on all of Q’s hints. 

“If she doesn’t make it as a field agent, we may offer her a job in Q branch,” he said.

Now it was Bond’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“After one test? Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

Q smiled and shook his head.

“Friedman has a Masters in mechanical engineering,” he explained, “and she’s come from the Royal Engineers. I’m half tempted to steal her away from a field role as it is.”

“Tut tut, Quartermaster.” Bond chuckled. “Don’t let Tanner hear you say that.”

Q just grinned cheekily at him. Bond did his best to ignore the warm fluttering in his chest. 

Unsurprisingly, Simmonds did not pass his second attempt. He made it further than the first time, not trying a second attempt at removing the timer, but he still didn’t act on any of Q’s hints. Bond honestly wasn’t sure whether the man had no logic (unlikely, if he had made it this far) or deemed the Quartermaster not worth listening to (far more likely, and exactly why he wasn’t field agent material). As the timer ran out, Q let out a long sigh.

“Well, that’s that,” he murmured. “Tanner will dismiss him officially tomorrow.”

As Q was about to inform Simmonds of his impending dismissal, Simmonds picked up the makeshift bomb and hurled it at the observation glass. It didn’t even make a crack, and Bond was impressed to notice that Q didn’t react more than to let out a sigh of disappointment, but it did reinforce the impression that Simmonds was not someone MI6 wanted to employ.

“That is quite enough, Trainee Simmonds,” Q said in his strictest Quartermaster voice. “Report to the Chief of Staff’s office at 0900 hours tomorrow. You’re dismissed.” 

For the second time that day, Simmonds stormed out. 

Happily, Westley and Chang both passed the second time, remembering where they had gone wrong earlier and learning from it.

“Well, only one failure,” he said, gathering his notes to drop off with Tanner on his way out for the day, “that’s not bad at all. We might actually have some contenders here.” 

“Trying to get me benched, Q?” Bond asked light-heartedly as he gathered his own notes. 

“Not at all, 007. You’ll stop when you’re good and ready, and don’t we know it.” 

They made their way to Tanner’s office, passing on their notes and letting Tanner know about his upcoming meeting with Simmonds. Tanner did not seem surprised.

As they made their way to the car park, Q turned to Bond with a tentative expression.

“If you’re still interested in the pub -”

“I am,” Bond reassured him before Q could babble too nervously. It really was very endearing, but he somehow doubted Q felt the same way. 

“It’s five now, and the quiz doesn’t start until eight. They do good food, though, so shall we meet for dinner first? Say seven o’clock?”

“That sounds like an excellent plan, Q, but you’re going to have to tell me where this pub is if you want me to meet you there.”

Q blushed.

“Right. Of course. It’s the Rose & Crown on Webber Street, near Waterloo. Just down from the Old Vic.” Q rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, and Bond had to resist the urge to reach out and touch him. 

“I think I know it,” Bond replied amiably. “I’ll meet you there at seven, then.” He turned and headed to his car before he could be tempted by Q and his adorable habits any further. Maybe spending time with his Quartermaster outside of work wasn’t such a good idea, after all. 

Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly given how well they got on at work, Bond had a lovely evening. The food was decent, and Q outside of work was just as snarky and witty as he was in the office, only now it was directed at the other pub goers and the quiz master. 

“Those people at table 12 always come dead last. Their team name is ‘the don’t know Normans’, so I suppose it’s expected. The people at table 5 and table 3 are competing for the worst team name ever. Table 5 is ‘you’re a quizzard, Harry’ and table 3 is ‘Les Quizerables’.” 

“And what’s your team name?” 

Q coughed sheepishly.

“‘The IT crowd.’ Except bloody Rob the quiz master keeps calling us ‘the it crowd’ - he’s just bitter because I corrected one of his questions the first time we played. And every other time he got one wrong.” 

Q’s stubborn expression during his explanation brightened into a grin as Bond laughed at the idea of Q correcting the quiz master. 

“The people at table 7 always try to cheat. They just can’t seem to figure out why the wifi and data signal go down during the quiz.” That last remark was said with a smirk, Q patting his coat pocket. Bond decided it was best not to ask why Q brought a signal jammer to a pub quiz.

Between the two of them, it turned out that their joint knowledge covered pretty much every topic that came up. Q only ever seemed pleased when Bond wrote down the answer before him, and was never boastful when he knew something that Bond didn’t. In quizzes as on missions, the Quartermaster and 007 made an excellent team. 

They pipped table 9 (“‘I am Smarticus’, _ honestly, _ Bond!”) to win with a very respectable 37 out of 40. Neither of them knew enough about the Kardashians, children’s TV, or the Great British Bake Off to manage a perfect score, but Q seemed happy enough. Bond couldn’t remember the last time he had had this much fun in a long time. 

“What kind of a name for a character is Iggle Piggle, anyway?” Q griped light-heartedly as they made their way out of the pub and walked in the direction of Waterloo station. 

“Beats me,” replied Bond, “if you ask me, In the Night Garden sounds more like the name of a bad porn film than a children’s TV show.”

Q laughed loudly, nudging Bond with his shoulder. Bond didn’t think Q was particularly drunk, they had only had two pints each, and the second was over an hour ago now. He felt an unfamiliar warm fuzziness envelop him at the idea that Q was comfortable enough in his presence to behave so playfully. 

Suddenly, a noise behind them caught Bond’s attention, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. In a gesture that would seem casual to any observer, Bond put a protective arm around Q’s shoulders, and led him swiftly into the next alleyway they passed. Q gave Bond a confused look, but seeing his serious expression, he didn’t speak. The last thing they needed was a confrontation with opportunistic muggers. That would not go well for anyone involved. 

Checking that there was nobody in the alley and nowhere for them to be hiding, Bond pushed Q behind his back and turned back to face the road, just as a clearly drunken figure stumbled into view. 

“Simmonds?!” 

Bond gave Q a sharp nudge with his elbow for drawing attention to himself. Thankfully, Q got the picture and ducked back down behind Bond’s broad shoulders. 

Standing alert, hands not yet reaching for the weapon in his shoulder holster, but ready to react quickly, Bond kept his eyes firmly on Simmonds. The man was obviously inebriated, but in Bond’s mind that just served to make him more dangerous. An arrogant man who knew he would be fired in the morning could be pretty desperate, after all. And if he blamed Q for his dismissal, well…

“You know,” slurred Simmonds, swaying wildly, “my father… he… knows people… people with… big wigs. He pulled quite a few strings to get me into MI6.”

Q snorted rather indelicately behind Bond’s back. Bond himself could not resist a slight smirk. 

“He’s going to be very dissp- disap-” Simmonds huffed, “mad that some jumped up little shit got me kicked out.”

Bond’s smirk dropped, his expression now thunderous. 

“I rather think he’ll be _ disappointed _ that his idiot of a son couldn’t follow instructions,” Bond replied calmly, stressing the word Simmonds had been struggling with. 

“Shut it, you… you… big-eared oafff.” Well now, that was just rude. “What d’you know?” 

Simmonds stumbled forward a couple of steps, obviously intending to point at Bond’s chest but actually aiming somewhere around his left elbow. Bond’s hand itched to reach for his weapon, but he would not be the one to escalate this. 

“Well, I was there.” Ok, so maybe he wouldn’t be the one to escalate things _ physically. _

“What you’re gonna do,” Simmonds continued, heedless of Bond’s interjection, “is… is… you’re gonna get me un-fired, that’s what.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, imagining a similar expression on Q’s face behind him.

“Now why would we do that?”

“Because,” Simmonds hiccuped, “because if you don’t…” he trailed off, taking another step forwards.

“If we don’t, what?” A few more steps, and Bond wouldn’t need a weapon to incapacitate this idiot. 

“If you don’t… I’m gonna get _ you _ fired! You’ll see!” Simmonds slurred triumphantly. 

Debating the merits of asking how exactly he intended to manage that, Bond decided he didn’t really want to know.

“You know as well as I do that you failed because of your inability to listen,” he replied, instead. If he could keep the other man talking, he could probably distract him enough to incapacitate Simmonds and get Q out of here.

“Why should I listen to some… some _ techie _?!” Simmonds spat the word. 

Bond had to give him a little credit; as insults went, this was one that wouldn’t make Bond go from ‘incapacitate’ to ‘oops, sorry Tanner, I appear to have maimed him.’

“Well, for a start, if you’d listened, you wouldn’t have failed… twice.” 

Simmonds actually growled this time, stumbling a few steps closer and shaking his fists. Bond guessed that one or two more steps should do it. Bond might feel a little bit guilty about egging someone on in order to knock them down, but not this man. Despite his stumbling, Bond knew how dangerous bitter drunks could be, especially if they felt they had nothing to lose. For Simmonds to have made it as far as he did in training, he clearly had some fighting prowess, and that could prove deadly to Q if Bond wasn’t careful. But still, if Simmonds’ father was as high up as he implied, there was no way Bond was throwing the first punch.

“Plus, if daddy had to pull strings to get you in, it’s a miracle you got as far as you did. Usually, your lot get weeded out on the first day.” There, that should do nicely.

Simmonds lunged, wildly throwing his fists but failing to land a punch. 

Bond, on the other hand, reached one hand out to steady Simmonds, and gave him a solid right hook with the other. 

Simmonds dropped like a sack of potatoes. 

“Is he…” Q asked, peeking over Bond’s shoulder at the slumped body. Far from worried, he merely sounded curious. 

Nudging Simmonds with his foot to be sure he wouldn’t come up swinging, Bond bent down and checked his pulse.

“He’s fine,” he confirmed, “I didn’t punch him _ that _ hard. Probably the combination of that and the alcohol.” 

Bond dragged Simmonds’ limp body over to the nearest wall, and propped him into a seating position. 

“Wouldn’t want him to choke on his own vomit,” he explained at Q’s raised eyebrow.

“And waking up leaning on a bin is better?” Q asked, sardonically. Bond just shrugged, innocently.

After a brief second of silence, they both started to laugh. What tension had been in the air dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. 

“Come on, Q,” said Bond, “let’s get you home before any other disgruntled ex-employees turn up.”


	4. Intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to Bond's surprise, he gets invited back to pub quiz night, and to other meals besides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Christinefromsherwood for beta reading - any mistakes left over are all my own work :P
> 
> This whole fic is a gift for lovely Mely, but there's a scene in here that was written particularly for her. Can you guess which one, Mely? (I would put the eyes emoji here if I could). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading :)

Much to Bond’s surprise, nights out with Q became a regular thing. When he was off-mission, he tried to make as many pub quizzes as he could. Q had explained that his team-mates, Grant and Shalini, were section heads at Q’s old department in MI5, and knew that he was the Quartermaster of MI6. Like most everyone else, they now called him Q, so there wasn’t any confusion when it came to Bond joining them. 

“I really do like it better than my birth name,” Q said with an enigmatic smile, “it suits me better.”

Grant and Shalini were welcoming of this new addition to their team, and seemed to appreciate Bond’s impressive trivia knowledge.

“I fly a lot,” he explained, with a wink at Q, “lots of puzzle books.” 

Bond was delighted to find that, between the four of them, they had the knowledge to win more often than not, but ‘The IT Crowd’ were careful to get enough questions wrong on purpose so that they didn’t win more than once every few weeks. 

“It isn’t fun for the other teams if the same people win every week,” Grant had explained after writing down a clearly incorrect answer, “besides, it’s not like any of us need the money.” 

Aside from the quizzes, Bond and Q made a habit of getting lunch or dinner at least once a week, missions allowing. What had started with Bond dropping of sandwiches, soup or noodles in Q branch turned into actually leaving the building to eat when Bond had arrived one Tuesday to find R giving her boss a strict telling off.

“If you do not go outside and see  _ actual daylight _ for at least an hour  _ right now _ , I will convince M to lock you out of the network. You may go home at night, Q, but when was the last time you took a lunch break?” 

Having at least some sense of self-preservation, Q made no argument. R might be five foot nothing and one of the sweetest people Bond had met, but she could be terrifying when she was on the warpath. 

“Oh, look,” she said brightly, noticing Bond for the first time, “007, escort the Quartermaster to lunch, will you? Make sure he sees the sky.” 

Bond, knowing when best to do as he was told, nodded in agreement. The pho he had picked up for Q could just as easily be eaten in the park, and it was a rare sunny day. 

Nobody was more surprised than Bond when, a week or so later, Q called him just as he was getting ready to head home for the day.

“Do you have plans tonight, 007?”

“No,” said Bond, confused, “why, do I have a new mission?”

“Yes,” replied Q, “I want Indian, and R is threatening to lock me out again. Meet me in the car park.”

And so it began. 

After a few weeks of being summoned when Q branch had decided the Quartermaster needed a break, Bond started to turn up and invite Q out himself. Purely for Q’s own good, of course. It wouldn’t do to lose the Quartermaster to exhaustion. If he had that warm, fuzzy feeling again every time Q accepted, well, that was Bond’s business.

On one memorable occasion, they had eaten at the Savoy Grill after Bond had returned from a short but bloody mission. The maitre d’ had looked aghast at the questionable stains on Bond’s suit (he’d forgotten to replace the spare in his locker last time he had needed it) along with Q’s rumpled cardigan and corduroys. Nevertheless, as they were both wearing ties, they technically met the dress code and he had to seat them. As soon as he walked away, they both cracked up laughing, stopping only when the sommelier, with a much better poker face, arrived to take their drinks order. Bond never would have guessed that spending time with Q would bring laughter back into his life. 

This time, it was Thai. Having discovered that their tastes in food were similar, it had become a habit to order two mains and maybe a couple of sides and and just share everything. Q got a kick out of seeing the reactions in some of the more upmarket restaurants they tried, and Bond got a kick out of Q enjoying himself. Sharing also meant a more informal atmosphere, which made getting to know each other much easier. 

For instance, Bond had learnt that Q played piano, had done his Masters at MIT and that he and R had done their undergraduate degrees together. Q had told him about his favourite book (“I don’t know why you’re laughing, Bond, Pratchett is a wonderful author. The Discworld is a brilliant social commentary, and Night Watch is everything the previous Watch novels had been leading up to. Seriously, you should give them a try.”) and why he hated romantic comedies (“they’re just  _ dull! _ How do people not fall asleep while they are watching them?!”). 

Tonight, he was learning that, although Q had insisted on ordering the pineapple fried rice, he picked out all the chunks of pineapple. 

Seeing Bond’s amused look, Q sheepishly explained that, while he liked the flavour the pineapple gave the rice, he didn’t actually like the texture contrast of biting into chunks of pineapple with his rice. 

“I save the pineapple for last,” he blushed, “that way, it’s kind of like having dessert.”

“Well, if you want dessert,” Bond replied smoothly, “I certainly wouldn’t object.” 

Bond didn’t even  _ like _ dessert. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. But surely, dessert places did coffee, right? Or he supposed he wouldn’t mind vanilla ice cream. 

Q blushed harder. Bond thought it was incredibly endearing. He started to wonder how far down that blush went, but then had to stop himself. Q enjoyed his company as a friend, nothing more. There was little point in imagining whether Q’s blush spread down his chest, or to the nape of his neck, underneath all that unruly hair…

Turning his attention back to the conversation, Bond realised that Q was waiting for a response.

“...Sorry?” Bond looked abashed. “I didn’t catch that.”

“No,” Q mused with an unreadable expression, “clearly. I asked if you wanted to come back to mine for dessert. You can have coffee.”

That… could not mean what Bond thought it meant. Yes, Bond had been growing more and more attached to his Quartermaster, and he’d admit that he’d had a few… unprofessional thoughts about Q, but there was absolutely no way that Q had any sort of similar feelings for Bond. 

Q had never kept his sexuality a secret, but surely he wouldn’t go for someone like him. Q would go for someone like himself. Young, and supple… beautiful. Not a washed up old dog with a bad shoulder and knees that ached when it rained. 

Q just… wanted to talk more, and knew Bond didn’t really like sweet things. That’s all.

“That sounds lovely,” he replied. There, that sounded like a response a friend would give. He hoped. 

Q smiled at him warmly as he waved over a waiter for the bill. Bond thought he might have seen a twinkle in Q’s eye, but was sure he imagined it. 

While Q paid (they decided early on to simply alternate who paid rather than split every bill), Bond tried to imagine what Q’s flat would look like. He knew it was a flat, not a house, because Q was always complaining about the stairs. That also suggested no lift, so probably nothing too modern or high up. Maybe a converted townhouse? Would it be sleekly furnished, full of high-tech gadgets, or cosy and cluttered? Bond guessed somewhere in the middle. There would be books, they had spent hours talking about books during their dinners. He would wager built-in bookshelves and a comfortable armchair. 

As Q always travelled by tube when he could help it, Bond drove them to Q’s flat. Neither man made much effort to keep the conversation going during the drive, but the silence was a comfortable one. Bond had never been the type to talk just for the sake of it, and Q never seemed to feel the need to fill the silence. Their conversations were natural, but so were the silences. That was one of the things Bond liked about spending time with Q.

When Q directed him to pull over into a side street, he was surprised to find not a Victorian townhouse, but a smartly refurbished brick warehouse in Bermondsey. Upon reflection, he decided that suited Q much better. It seemed appropriate that the mix of old fashioned and modern, homely and utilitarian that was present in Q’s grandfather cardigans and ultra-modern tech would also be present in his home. 

Entering through a door with what Bond would guess was more than an average keypad entry, they climbed the stairs to the second floor. As this was the top floor of the building, the ceilings were slightly higher than the lower floors, large windows flooding the stairwell with light from the street lamps outside. 

Q unlocked the door to his flat (Bond tried, but was unable to pinpoint any additional security measures. Maybe there was a fingerprint sensor in the doorknob?), holding it open for Bond, who stepped inside. 

The flat was dark, but half-lit by the giant windows. From a door to his right, he could just make out bookshelves and a sofa, but little else. Bond had just turned to hang his coat next to Q’s when he heard a crash from a room down the hall. 

Without hesitating, he backed up to block Q between himself and the door, ignoring Q’s squawk of protest and his attempt to push Bond away. He pulled his (highly illegal and definitely  _ not _ MI6-issued) gun from its holster, aimed it at the doorway the noise seemed to be coming from. 

How had intruders found out where Q lived? Was this a random break-in, or had the Quartermaster of MI6 been targeted? 

Clearly, Q was going to have to move house once Bond had sorted this out.

Bond didn’t let himself think about the possibility of someone from his past finding out about his friendship with Q and going after him because of that. Whoever had managed to get in, they were in for a very bad night. The wrath of 007 left no prisoners.

Another thud.

A figure appeared through the doorway. 

It was… a cat?

“Bond-” 

Q rested a hand on Bond’s shoulder. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he reacted on instinct, grabbing Q’s wrist and turning to press him up against the door. 

“- please don’t shoot my cat,” Q finished rather breathlessly, “that would be quite vexing.” 

Bond just now noticed that he had the Quartermaster pushed up against the door and their faces were inches away from each other. His eyes drifted down to Q’s lips, saw Q’s tongue flick out to wet them…

He stepped back sharply, dropping Q’s wrist as if burned. 

“Sorry,” he coughed, awkwardly, “I thought it was an intruder.”

“No harm done,” Q replied genially, leaning casually against the door, “I should have warned you about Pudding and Pickle.”

Bond decided it was best not to comment on the fact that Q apparently had two cats, and that the cats were apparently called  _ Pudding and Pickle _ . Now that the adrenaline rush was calming down, he realised that he had just  _ pushed his Quartermaster up against a door _ . 

Shit. 

“The kitchen’s this way,” Q said pushing himself off the door and brushing past Bond into the living area. “Coffee for you, was it?”

Bond sighed, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. He felt like a fool for over-reacting. Q was just being kind not to mention it, but what if he told Psych? They would have a field day, say he had PTSD and couldn’t do missions any more. 

He needed to get out of there before he made Q think any worse of him. He would miss the dinners together, Bond thought, but there was no way Q would want to spend time with him after this. The bomb was one thing, but trying to protect Q from his own cat? The Quartermaster would definitely think that was going too far. 

“Actually,” he aimed for casual and landed somewhere around stilted, “I should probably get going.”

“Oh,” did Q look disappointed, or was Bond just imagining things again?

“Yes, I’ve just remembered I have an early appointment… with my tailor.” Bond, as a rule, did not make  _ any _ appointments earlier than 9.30, and it was only coming up to 10pm now. He cursed himself. It was the first thing he could think of, and it was the most ridiculous excuse imaginable. Thankfully, or perhaps disappointingly, Q didn’t comment.

“Well… goodnight, then.” 

Bond would have liked to say that he didn’t rush out the door as quickly as possible, but that would be lying to himself. The door crashed closed behind him. Not quite the suave exit he was hoping for.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself as he trudged back down the stairs, “that could have gone better.” 


	5. Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After running out on Q the night before, Bond doesn't get the chance to make himself scarce for a while. It looks like he's heading out on a mission. With Q. Awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting chapter 5, I've been arguing with chapter 6 and didn't want to post it in case I needed to make some changes. I think we're over the worst of that now, so it is finally here :) 
> 
> I'm hoping to finish chapter 6 in the next day or so, so I'll be posting that sometime in the next week... maybe. 
> 
> As always, thank you to Christinefromsherwood for her awesome Beta-ing (also known as "convincing Souffle that not everything is terrible")

For better or worse, Bond didn’t get much time to reflect on the many ways in which his first visit to Q’s flat could have gone better. The next morning, after a night of restless sleep interspersed with long periods of staring up at the ceiling and regretting his life choices, he was summoned to M’s office. 

“There’s a new mission, 007,” M said without looking up from the papers on his desk, “highly sensitive, absolutely no margin for cock-ups.” At this last bit, he finally did look up, only to give Bond the kind of look that said ‘so none of that funny business you usually get up to. I am onto you, 007.’

“I wouldn’t say the cock-ups are usually intentional. Sir.” The pause before the honorific was just long enough to be impertinent, but aside from a raised brow, M didn’t react. 

“Nevertheless,” he breezed on, “we would prefer minimal explosions, you’ll be strictly on protection duty.”

Bond rarely got the protection duty missions. They had an unfortunate habit of ending up with the person he was meant to protect either dead or turning out to be a traitor. For him to be going on this mission, they had to be either desperate or didn’t really care whether the asset made it out alive or not.

“And who will I be protecting?” 

As if the universe had some cruel sense of comic timing, the door swung open at that moment.

“Sorry I’m late,” Q blurted, rushing into the room, “bloody tube strike... oh!” 

Q pulled up short when he caught sight of Bond, schooling his expression before Bond could read whether the tone of surprise was pleased or disappointed. He rather suspected disappointed, given Bond’s less-than-suave exit the previous evening. 

“No harm done, Quartermaster,” said M, “actually, you’re just in time. I was just explaining to 007 that he’s to be your protection detail on this mission.”

“He’s what?” 

“I’m what?”

They exchanged an awkward glance. M’s brow made a valiant effort to rise even further than it had before. 

“Sir,” Q started tentatively, “is it really the best idea to send me out on a mission? Surely I would be better placed by talking the agents through whatever is required from Q branch?”

“Usually, I would agree, however in this case, we require you on the ground. We have reason to believe that an organisation calling itself the Red Spider is operating out of Kuala Lumpur and poses an international threat. Local intelligence tells us that they have an underground bunker blocking external communications.”

M picked up two files from his desk and handed them over to Bond and Q. 

“007, your priority is to find the bunker and gain access. Q, we need you onsite to access their network once Bond gets you in. If our intelligence is correct, they are developing a new form of ransomware and intend to use it to cripple global intelligence services, including ourselves. I have the utmost confidence in your defences, Quartermaster,” he raised a hand to silence Q before he could interject, “but even you cannot fight against the unknown. I don’t need to explain to you what could be the consequences if this goes wrong.” The seriousness of this statement was underlined by M’s expression.

Bond and Q nodded. 

Bond considered the idea of Q on a mission. Q had admitted during one of their dinners together that, although he had excellent marksmanship scores on the range, he had never shot at a living target. Would that turn out to be a liability in the field, if things went wrong? Things always went wrong. He was usually able to think on the fly and get himself out of trouble, but could he do that and keep Q safe at the same time?

“We need you on the ground by first thing on Thursday, which means you’ll need to fly out tonight. Quartermaster, if you could make the necessary arrangements?”

Q nodded, looking slightly green. Bond remembered Moneypenny telling him back in Macau that Q was afraid to fly. 

Well, no time like the present to face one’s fears. If all else failed, Bond mused, he would get Q drunk enough to pass out on the flight. 

“Very well,” said M, turning his attention back to his papers, “you’re dismissed.”

As they rose to leave, Bond debated whether to bring up last night with Q. He would simply explain that… what? He had overreacted at the sight of a cat because he had visions of that awful trainee Simmonds coming back to have another go at Q? He was worried that some of the many people out to get him would find out about his friendship with Q, and that he’d never get there in time if they were to take Q? No, he decided, best to let Q think Bond a fool who was afraid of coffee. 

“I’ll text you the flight details once I have them,” Q shot at Bond over his shoulder as he rushed off back to Q branch. 

Without realising it, Bond had been so caught up in thinking of how to explain his actions and hadn’t noticed Q making off towards the lift. Moneypenny gave him a confused look, but Bond brushed past her and away from M’s office. He contemplated heading down to the range to get his thoughts in order over some therapeutic shooting, but decided instead to go for a swim. The repetitive motion was calming, and he was about to spend hours sat on a plane, after all. 

After swimming 50 lengths of the MI6 pool, Bond pulled himself out of the pool, picking up his towel as he headed towards the showers. Stopping by his locker for his toilet bag, he checked his phone to find the expected update from Q.

_ Heathrow, terminal 4, gate 14, 1730hrs. Meet u there. I’ll bring the kit. Q.  _

Bond was 100% sure the ‘u’ was solely for his benefit, Q was usually a stickler for proper spelling and punctuation. 

Under the warm spray, Bond contemplated the mission ahead. If things were going to be awkward between them after last night, it was doomed to fail. He needed to find a way to put it behind them, and fast. The problem was, Bond knew he was starting to (who was he kidding, this had been going on for a while) feel more than just a friendly affection for Q. 

It was no good. Bond would have to find a way to fix things before they landed in Malaysia. 

Getting dressed, he checked his watch. It was only 12.30 now and, allowing for rush hour, he would have to set off for Heathrow by 16.00. The good thing about travelling with MI6 was that he didn’t have to worry about pesky things like check-in queues and “random” security searches. Or having to arrive at least 90 minutes before departure. Q branch would always ensure the plane didn’t set off before their agents were onboard, even if that meant intercepting air traffic control. 

Assuming that this was one day where turning up to Q branch with lunch would  _ not _ be appreciated, Bond decided that he would take advantage of the extra few hours of downtime by going home and changing out his grab bag. He had a new suit of supposedly durable material that he’d been meaning to test out on a mission, and he was fairly certain that the bloodstain in one of his packed shirts hadn’t come out. It would also be a good idea to throw away the meagre contents of his fridge, one never knew how long a mission could last. 

Grab bag refreshed and supplied with fresh reading material for the flight, Bond departed his flat with plenty of time to spare. Knowing that Q would have spent the day working to prepare both his kit and the intel package for their mission, he assumed that the Quartermaster wouldn’t have taken time out to eat, and everyone knew that plane food, even in business class, was terrible. Bond planned to arrive early, and pick up some food for the pair of them from the Lebanese chain he liked in Terminal 4. 

After passing through security with no issues, Bond stopped at Le Comptoir Libanais to buy two tagines and a selection of baklava to take away. It wouldn’t hurt to appeal to Qs sweet tooth in case his explanation didn’t pass muster. Food in hand, Bond took a seat at gate 14, settling in to wait for Q. 

At 17.30 on the dot, a rather harried looking Q settled into the seat next to him with a huff, dropping his own carry on bag and another bag that Bond assumed held their kit at his feet. 

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t turn up,” Bond said lightly, passing over the still-warm food.

“Oh, very funny,” Q snarked back, accepting the pot with a grateful smile, “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to get everything ready. I had to send Eve round to my flat to pack, God knows what I’ll end up with.”

“If we’re very lucky, you might even have colours that don’t clash for once.”

That earned him the expected glare. Bond wondered if anyone had ever told Q that his attempt at a baleful glare looked more like an upset kitten. The Quartermaster stare, though, that was impressive. 

“Is there anything I need to know about before we get there?” Bond changed the subject. They wouldn’t be likely to get any time alone to discuss the mission before they arrived at the safehouse in Kuala Lumpur. If there was anything he needed to know before then, he trusted that Q would find a way to tell him.

“Nothing urgent,” Q replied casually, aware that the crowd of passengers waiting to board could overhear, “though you might want to check your emails once we’re onboard. I took the liberty of booking the back row of business class. No prying eyes behind us.”

Good old Q, he really did think of everything. Not that Bond really minded where he sat, but he couldn’t very well read his briefing on the plane if there was anyone next to him or behind him. With Q next to him and only the dividing wall behind them, he would have no such problem. 

Soon, the call came for them to board. Without a word, Bond picked up Q’s kit bag along with his own carry on, merely raising an eyebrow at Q’s attempt to protest. With their luggage stowed overhead and the kit bag safely to hand underneath the seat, Bond turned to Q. 

“Am I going to need to get you drunk?”

“I beg your pardon?” Q looked taken aback.

“Moneypenny told me you’re afraid of flying.” 

“Ah,” now Q looked slightly sheepish, “well. Not exactly afraid. But I would prefer not to fly if I can avoid it. That’s a story for another time, though, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” Bond murmured genially, wondering what had happened to make Q avoid flying. 

After the safety announcement and take-off (Bond pretended not to notice Q’s white-knuckled grip on the arm rests), the flight attendant came around to take drinks orders. Bond ordered a scotch, smothering a smile when Q ordered apple juice. 

After their drinks arrived, they settled into an awkward silence. 

Bond cleared his throat. No time like the present. 

“About the other night…” he trailed off, not sure how to continue. 

“Bond,” Q started, obviously about to take pity on him and tell him that he didn’t need to explain.

“No,” Bond interrupted him firmly, “I owe you an apology,” 

Q raised an eyebrow, but more out of surprise than scepticism. 

“I overreacted.” There, was that so hard to say? (Yes, yes it was.) “I’m… overtrained, I suppose. Sometimes that means jumping at shadows. Or pulling a gun on an innocent cat.” 

Q snorted, but didn’t speak, seemingly content to let Bond say his piece. For them to move forward and work together as well as they needed to on this mission, honesty was the only option. He owed Q that much, for the friendship they had built. Even if was becoming more than friendship on Bond’s side (and only on his side, he was sure). 

“I was… embarrassed. So I left.” 

Q gave him a small smile, no doubt knowing how hard it was for a double-oh to admit their shortcomings. 

“No harm done,” he replied lightly. Q’s expression turned sheepish and he blushed as he continued, “After you left, I realised I didn’t actually have any coffee, anyway.” 

After a brief moment’s pause, they both started to laugh. The tension of the morning and the awkwardness of a few minutes before had vanished, leaving only the friendly camaraderie of the past weeks. 

The rest of the flight passed comfortably. Both took the time to read up on the mission briefing, chatted as freely as they had over their shared meals, and even laughed over some of the in-flight entertainment together. After a few hours, Bond advised Q to get some sleep, knowing that he would remain awake for the duration of the flight. Many years of flying meant that Bond had no issues falling asleep on planes, but with Q there to take care of, he wouldn't risk it today. Bond tried hard not to react when a dozing Q’s head rested on his shoulder, settling down more comfortably with his book. 

An hour or so before they were due to land, a rough patch of turbulence shook Q awake. Bond didn’t comment, even as it left Q hanging on to Bond’s arm with a death grip. After it had passed, Q shot him a grateful smile as Bond flagged down the flight attended to request tea for Q and a coffee for himself. 

Bond successfully managed to further distract Q from his rude awakening by complaining about the quality of the drinks, grimacing as he took a sip.

“Actually, that’s not the coffee,” Q explained, making a face as he sipped his own tea, “it’s the water.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Yes, two reasons. One, the water is stored in tanks, so it’s not as fresh as the water we get straight from the tap. Two, water boils at a lower temperature when you fly at high altitudes, so it isn’t always hot enough to brew properly. Particularly with black tea.” 

Q went on to explain more about the science behind why things tasted different when you were flying, and Bond couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t utterly charmed by it. 

“Q, with you, every day is a school day,” he said appreciatively. Q blushed a little, smiling back at him. Bond secretly wished he could find a way to put that look on Q’s face every time they saw each other.

Soon enough, the plane came in to land, Q once again holding tight to the arm rests. This time, Bond placed his hand gently over Q’s, offering what little comfort he could. Q turned his hand, lacing his fingers with Bonds and squeezing hard. Bond stroked his thumb softly over the back of Q’s knuckles, but didn’t try to lighten the mood. Some things were Q’s alone, he would tell Bond if he wanted to. 

Not having any checked luggage, they made their way straight to the exit after disembarking and passing through passport control. Q let out a jaw-breaking yawn as they went through the automatic doors and out into the mid-afternoon light, Bond struggling to contain his own yawn in response. They made their way to the pedestrian crossing that led to the car park. Q had arranged for a car to be dropped off by the local agent. The joys of smart technology meant that they didn't even need to find a key drop, and instead would be able to open the car with a Q-branch app. 

Q stepped out onto the crossing, secure in the knowledge that he had right of way. Bond, rather more used to the habits of drivers overseas when it came to zebra crossings, was more cautious. As he looked right, he saw a taxi approaching that didn’t seem to be slowing down.

“Q!” 

Even as he called out, he darted forward to grab hold of Q’s elbow, barely registering Q’s yelp of surprise. His other arm reached for Q’s waist, as he hauled him back towards the pavement. He had just managed to get Q out of the way of the oncoming vehicle as it sped past them, missing Q by a foot at most. 

Bond held Q a little tighter as he helped the Quartermaster regain his balance, shaken by how close he had come to losing his - friend? Colleague? Something more? - to a speeding taxi, of all things. He rested his forehead against the nape of Q’s neck as he heaved out a long sigh of relief, before pulling himself together and taking a step back. 

Q was pale with shock, but rallied quickly. 

“Overtrained, did you say?” 

Bond laughed, despite himself.

“Perhaps just trained enough, when it comes to keeping you safe.” 

The smile Q gave him then was brighter than one thousand suns. If Bond were the type of person to use such language, he might say it was heart-warming. Privately, he thought that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to try and put another one of those smiles on Q’s face. 


	6. Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q have been in Malaysia for four days, and finally got the break they needed. Can they make it in and out of Red Spider's bunker without getting caught?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, the fabled +1 of '5+1 times' - I hope you enjoy seeing the tables turned a little bit.
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing a mission, unless you count that silly IKEA fic I wrote for Fest, so feedback is greatly appreciated. I cleverly got Mely and Christine to do the action-y bits in our collab fic, Dizzyingly Digital, which you should definitely read because they are awesome and my chapters aren't bad either!
> 
> As always, thanks to Christinefromsherwood for being a brilliant beta reader and idea wrangler. This fic would not be finished without her help. 
> 
> The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed that the chapter count has increased by 1. That's because I didn't want to shoehorn the way I wanted this fic to end into a few paragraphs at the end of 6. The epilogue is drafted, and will be posted in a few days once I've polished it up.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy the ride and let me know what you think!

“Are you ready, Q?”

“Almost, 007.”

Four days in Kuala Lumpur had led them to this moment. Four days of gathering intel - Bond on the streets and Q on his laptop - and just generally being in quarters too cramped for Bond’s comfort. 

The evening before, they had finally made a breakthrough and found the location of the Red Spider’s underground headquarters. Q, for his part, had sourced the blueprints, local CCTV and even their electricity bills from the last three months. Whatever they were doing, they were using a lot of power. Unfortunately, Q couldn’t get into their network remotely as their mission briefing had indeed been accurate when it said that external communications were being blocked. Q would have to go in and access their computers in person. 

Now, at 0600, the city was already bustling, but the network of alleyways that hid the bunker was dead to the world. Bond assumed that there would be guards at least inside some of the buildings, but they hadn’t seen anyone come or go. 

It was the best they could hope for. 

Hours of going over different options the night before had resulted in their current plan. All of the computer systems were off limits, but the blueprints clearly showed that, due to building regulations, the fire alarm system was wired into the building itself and setting off the alarms would override any electronic locks. All they had to do was to find a way to set off the alarms, and the internal doors would open for them.

That just left the problem of getting in the main door. Q had been able to establish that the building had two fire exits - one closer to the central rooms that led into a different alleyway, and the main entrance, which happened to be closest to the guard station. Assuming the building was guarded at all times, they would simply need to take out any guards that came running, and enter through the open door. 

So here they were, Bond keeping a lookout while Q was sat on the pavement with his back to Bond doing… something with the cotton wool and vaseline he had insisted they pick up on their way to dinner the previous night. Bond could only assume that this was Q’s idea for setting off the fire alarms.

“Is there anything I can help with?” 

Bond would never admit it, but he felt at a loose end. He was used to being the only one on missions, or at least the one making the plans. Only having a vague idea of what Q was doing made him antsy. How could he make sure it didn’t go wrong if he didn’t know what was happening? Bond was meant to be _ protecting _ Q on this mission, but without knowing all of the variables, that wasn’t easy.

“No need,” Q replied, looking intently at his handiwork, “I just need to rig a way of attaching the firestarter to the window with this, so that we can light it safely.” He held up a roll of flame-retardant cord.

The bathroom window had been Bond’s idea. While he was watching the building the day before, he had noticed an open window just above street level, about 10 metres from the door they needed. The window wasn’t big enough for either of them to climb through, but it would do the trick for starting a small, contained fire to get people out. It was more than likely that even the Red Spider would follow the unwritten rule of men’s toilets - keeping the window open at all times, security procedures be damned. 

Bond peered over Q’s shoulder to take a look. Q had dunked a large ball of cotton wool in the petroleum jelly and seemed to be knotting together a sort of cradle for the soon-to-be-fireball. 

The whole thing looked rather more like an arts-and-crafts project than a firestarter, but Bond reminded himself that this was one time that simply throwing a molotov cocktail through the window wouldn’t work. For one thing, it would create too much of a bang and alert anyone present in the building to foul play. For another, they didn’t want to start an uncontained fire, just enough of one to set off the smoke alarms. Bond trusted Q’s little fireball to do the job just right.

“Won’t that burn out before it gets in? I thought cotton wool burned quickly? And that vaseline wasn’t flammable?” 

Q turned away from checking on his project to look at Bond with a conspiratorial smile.

“Cotton wool by itself does burn out in seconds, you’re right. Petroleum Jelly in its usual form doesn’t take a flame, either. The key is lighting a dry patch of cotton wool - the heat from the flame melts the jelly, then the cotton works rather like a candle wick, and as the jelly boils, it converts into petroleum gas. Once you get to that point, the gas itself burns while the liquid stops the cotton ball from being consumed by the flame. This should burn for about four minutes, provided the holes in my net are small enough to stop the ball falling through immediately, but still allow enough oxygen in.”

Bond was impressed. It appeared that there was no limit to Q’s ingenuity. It was one of the many, many things that he liked about his Quartermaster.

“Q, you really are incredible.” 

“Yes, well,” Q blushed, “it pays to be creative, sometimes.” 

Bond wondered about the other ways Q could be creative. He was sure that his creativity didn’t only apply to the workplace. Not with those clever hands-

He cleared his throat and took a nonchalant step back so that he wasn’t looming over Q’s shoulder. 

“Ok, we should be ready.” Q stood up, taking a pen from his pocket. “You’re the one who scrambles about for a living, so you can do the honours. Hook the net onto the inside window handle with this,” he gestured to a longer stretch of cord, “make sure the ball is _ inside _ the bathroom before you light it, unless you want to start the day with third-degree burns.”

“Why Q, I didn’t know you cared.” 

Q gave him a sardonic look and handed over the pen.

“I’ll stay by the door, you use this to light the ball from arm’s length - do _ not _ stick your head through the window, 007, it would be a shame to lose those eyebrows. As soon as it’s lit, you shut the window and leg it over here. Get ready to shoot anyone who comes out of that door.” 

Bond raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you didn’t go in for exploding pens any more?” 

Q smirked.

“Exploding pens, no. Far too loud for my tastes. But that doesn’t mean Q branch isn’t working on a range of pens with… other uses. This one’s a prototype, so don’t lose it. Just click the end, it’ll only flame while you’re pressing down.”

“Copy that, Q.” 

Bond crouched by open window, peering inside quickly to make sure the room was vacant. After hooking the net securely over the upturned handle, he pulled his head clear of the window and used his left hand to light the ball, deciding that if he did get burned, it had better not be on his dominant hand. 

As the flame touched the ball, it ignited instantly but burned steadily. Tossing the smoke bomb inside, he pulled back quickly and pushed the window closed. 

Bond dashed back to Q’s side as the fire alarms started blaring. He skidded to a halt between Q and the closed door, pulling out his Walther. 

Q might not feel like he needed protection, but Bond would be damned if he let Q get hurt on his watch. He released the safety catch and settled into position, aware of Q checking the silencer on his own weapon behind him. 

“I do hope you know how to shoot that thing without hitting me in the back,” Bond murmured.

“Don’t be ridiculous, 007,” Q said with an audible smirk, “I make your guns, you can be damned sure I know how to shoot them. If I ever shoot you, it will be on purpose.” 

They fell silent when they heard the first sound of raised voices and feet running up the stairs towards the closed door. As the door clanged open, the first two men to run out dropped like stones: Bond shot the first in the neck as Q caught the second between the eyes. 

Bond was impressed, despite himself. Maybe this would be the one time where protection detail actually succeeded in keeping his ‘asset’ unharmed. 

Bond wasn’t sure what he would do if Q got hurt. 

Mentally counting to ten, Bond waited to see if anyone else would come out this way. He beckoned for Q to follow him and made his way through the doorway and down the stairs into a surprisingly well-lit corridor. 

They moved forwards, fire alarms going off around them, weapons ready for any stragglers left inside. 

“Third door on the left,” whispered Q from behind Bond. Bond nodded acknowledgment. 

They had both memorised the building plans, of course, but Bond supposed that Q was so used to giving directions from Q branch that it had slipped his mind. 

They continued down the empty corridor. They seemed to be alone. Hopefully, it would stay that way and they could get this over with quickly. 

Then again, when did anything ever go to plan?

The door to the server room was unlocked when they stopped in front of it, the keypad flashing EMERGENCY - LOCK DISABLED. 

Bond held up a hand, gesturing for Q to stay back. Walther at the ready, he pressed his back against the wall and reached for the door handle, turning it silently and opening the door a crack. There was no sound to suggest anyone was inside, so he pushed the door wide open and entered, gun raised. 

The room was empty save for a rack of servers and a computer displaying a log-in screen. 

Bond waved Q in and, as Q made himself at home in front of the screen, settled in to cover his back. Bond was certainly no slouch when it came to technology - he had hacked his way into the previous M’s laptop along with countless others - but trying to keep up with what Q was doing would be too much of a distraction from keeping Q safe. He trusted Q to speak up if he needed assistance. 

Keeping half of his attention on the open doorway - better to keep it open than to close it and become trapped if the locks re-engaged - Bond glanced around the empty room. No other exits, and what cupboards were there weren’t big enough to hold a person if they were hiding. That meant just the one exit to cover. 

Bond relaxed, slightly. They were over the first hurdle. 

In an ideal world, Q would finish up whatever he was doing and they would go back the way they came before the alarms stopped and someone discovered their presence. They had a window of six minutes, Q had estimated, and it shouldn’t take him more than two to copy the files and wipe their hard drive. If he could crack into their system quickly. In Bond’s experience, it didn’t help to plan as if they were in an ideal world, so he assumed they would come up against some token resistance at least. 

With the signal jammer Red Spider had in place, there was no point setting up cameras to watch the exits Unfortunately, that meant that Bond had no idea how many people had gone out the other way and what they were doing now. If they had circled around and found the dead guards, things could go wrong in a hurry. 

Somewhere in the back of Bond’s mind, he marveled at how quickly he had become used to Q having eyes everywhere. Once, this had been the norm, but now he hated the uncertainty. 

Bond glanced at his watch. Only two minutes had passed since he had lit the fireball. It seemed like much longer, as it always did when part of his attention was on keeping someone else safe,. 

“Q?” There was no need to say anything else, Q would take it for the status request it was.

“I’m in. Locating files now.” 

Theoretically, that meant that Q should be done in another two minutes, giving them two more to get out of the building. 

Everything was going to plan so far. Still, Bond couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bound to go wrong. Nothing _ ever _ went to plan. 

He approached the doorway, risking a glance to either side. No sign of anyone coming back in so far. Keeping far enough back to be out of the line of sight of anyone who did come inside, he kept watch. 

Two minutes or several hours later, Bond heard Q moving around behind him. He stepped further back into the room, and risked turning his head. 

“Done?”

Q nodded. He was standing up now, but his attention was still on the screen.

“Just wiping their hard drive… now. Done. Let’s get out of here.” Q slipped a palm-sized external drive into his jacket pocket and stepped back, picking up his gun. 

Bond had just turned back towards the door when he heard the voices: shouts in Malay came from the direction they had entered. 

They had found the bodies, then. So much for an easy exit. Closing the door would draw too much attention, and besides, there was no other exit. They would have to shoot their way out.

“Be ready to shoot,” he hissed to Q, “and stay behind me. I’m not going back to explain myself to Moneypenny if you get yourself shot.”

If he was really lucky, Q wouldn’t see through the snark to the agonising worry that _ Bond _ would be the one to get Q shot. 

Feeling rather than hearing Q come up behind him, Bond took a deep breath. Whatever happened now, Q had to make it out. That was what protection detail meant! 

Bond took a measured step towards the door and raised his gun, pointing it in the direction of the entrance. He craned his neck to look out into the corridor, but couldn’t see anyone. It looked like the guards were still in the doorway, then. 

They had two choices: they could go out the way they came in, where they were guaranteed to meet resistance, or they could head for the other exit, not knowing what awaited them there. 

Or, third choice, they could stay exactly where they were and pick off anyone who came in, possibly get shot like fish in a barrel. Bond discounted that option as soon as he thought it up. 

As if knowing Bond’s thought process, though likely just following along the same track himself, Q stepped closer and whispered in his ear.

“Better to go back the way we came in. We know the lay of the land better, and there are more escape routes. The other exit is a dead end. I’ll cover your back.”

Bond forcibly reminded himself to stop thinking of Q as _ just _someone to protect. This was the man who watched over his missions. Who got him out of more tight spots than he would have been able to without Q’s help. Q’s grasp of strategy was equal to Bond’s, even if he was usually playing as chess master rather than pawn! 

Taking another deep breath to centre himself, Bond stepped forward. 

Moving as quickly and quietly as they could, the pair moved towards the stairs leading up to street level. And a guaranteed fight, but Q was right: this was one case of ‘better the devil you know.’ 

Bond was just climbing the first step when a shadow filled the doorway above them. Bond’s shot hit him in the chest and the man fell, but not before he could call out to whoever else was up there. With a body now blocking their exit, it was all the more difficult to get out. Bond could only hope it would also make it harder for those on the outside to get _ in. _

“Stay behind me, keep out of the line of fire,” Bond hissed to Q, “and for God’s sake don’t draw their attention.” 

Q’s grunt probably didn’t count as an agreement, but there wasn’t time to force the issue. Bond had barely finished speaking when three more Red Spider flunkies appeared. 

Bond caught one in the shoulder just as he managed to fire off a shot of his own, making his opponent’s bullet ricochet harmlessly off the wall and embed itself in the ceiling. The injured man fell back out of view, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway.

He ducked out of the way of the second man’s bullet, hoping beyond hope that Q had managed to do the same. The third attacker seemed to be staying back for now, perhaps unarmed. Even so, he couldn’t keep out of Bond’s line of fire for long.

Bond aimed a shot that hit the second man in his gun arm, followed up by a shot to the head. The man pulled the trigger just as the bullet hit him, thankfully firing outside of the stairwell. 

That left one man injured but alive, and another unharmed but seemingly unarmed. 

Unfortunately for him, he didn’t quite manage to make it out of Bond’s sight fast enough and he fell, hit by a bullet to the centre mass. 

Three down, one to go. 

Straining to hear anything beyond the ringing in his ears and the rush of blood in his head, Bond couldn’t make out any signs that Mr Shoulder Wound had any friends left. 

His last remaining foe was clearly staying away from the door. Maybe he hoped to ambush Bond as they left the building... 

“Bond!” 

Later, Bond would try to convince himself that the aforementioned ear ringing and blood rushing was why, as he climbed the last few steps to daylight, he didn’t hear an extra set of footsteps that weren’t Q’s. 

Q’s shout from the step below came just as he was about to step outside. Bond turned on his heel, gun already raised, but a fraction too late. 

Someone had come back in through the other entrance.

How, how, _ how _ had someone managed to sneak up on them?! He was a double oh, for Christ’s sake! If Q hadn’t been watching his back, that someone could well have shot Bond in the back without him even knowing he was there. 

Q had seen the man far enough away that Bond would never know for sure which one of them he was aiming for. 

Q had seen the man far enough away that Bond would always know that Q had done _ the one thing _ Bond had asked him not to! 

Q stepped into the line of fire as the man fired, blocking Bond as well as he could with his slight body. 

Aeons passed in the split second as the bullet flew.

Q let out a pained hiss, curling in on himself as the bullet grazed him on its way to thud into the wooden bannister, sending splinters flying. 

Before he could blink again, their assailant died with Bond’s bullet between his eyes.

“Q?” Bond could hear his voice trembling, frantic. 

Q grunted. He straightened up with a wince, pressing his left hand to his waist. 

Bond could just see a hint of red on his fingers and felt sick. How could he have let this happen?

“It’s just a graze,” Q panted, screwing his face up before taking a slow, deliberate breath and forcibly relaxing his features, “let’s get out of here.”

Shaken, Bond nodded and turned to go. They emerged into the daylight, stepping carefully over the body in the doorway, .

The last man, the man Bond had shot in the shoulder - was it seconds or hours ago? - was stood in the mouth of the alley, gun raised in a shaking hand. As Bond raised his weapon to let off one last shot, the man fell, hit by a bullet to the chest. 

Incredulous, Bond turned to Q and saw him lowering the gun he held in his right hand, left hand still pressed to his side. 

“What?” Q looked unperturbed. “You’re the only one allowed to shoot people aiming at someone you’re… fond of?” 

Bond cleared his throat awkwardly and shook his head. 

He flicked the safety on his Walther but kept it ready just in case., Q was doing the same, he noticed. His gaze lingered where Q’s hand was, fingers wet with blood. Q caught his gaze.

“It really is just a graze. Hurts like hell, and I would rather like it to stop bleeding, but I won’t be dropping down dead anytime soon.” 

“Why… you… _ why? _” Bond spluttered helplessly. 

Why had Q got in the way?

Why had Q taken a bullet for him? 

Why had Q taken a _ life _ for him?

Q’s expression softened. 

“James, how many times have you saved me? Whether or not the danger was real, you’re always trying to save me. It’s about time I got to return the favour.”

Oh. Well, then. 

That… made a twisted sort of sense. 

But still!

“But it’s my job to protect _ you _,” Bond finally managed to say. 

“And it is the Quartermaster’s job to protect his agents,” Q countered, “but more importantly, _ I _ wanted to protect _ you. _” 

Bond didn’t have an answer to that. Before he could gather his thoughts, Q breezed on, “Let’s get back to the hotel, I hear a first aid kit calling my name. Jesus, why didn’t you warn me how much these things hurt?”

For as long as he lived, Bond would thank whatever lucky stars he had watching over him that day that the man who shot Q had a lousy aim. 

They made their way swiftly back to the car they had parked in a neighbouring alley, Q snarking the whole way. Bond had never been so happy to hear Q complaining, because it meant that he was _ alive _. 

He wasn’t going to be another dead asset on 007’s mission log. He wasn’t going to be another lost friend. 

Slowly, like the sun coming up, Bond smiled. 


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond patches Q up after their mission, and things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends! Thank you so much to everyone who made it this far. This is my first completed solo multi-chap, so it's quite the achievement to me. 
> 
> Thanks again to Christinefromsherwood for being the best beta and idea wrangler. This would not be half as polished without her help. It probably wouldn't be finished, either.
> 
> Mely, I hope you've enjoyed it :)

They made it back to their cramped hotel room without any hassle. 

Q had staunchly refused any help getting out of the car and up to their room, but he was pale with the pain. Bond knew from experience how much  _ ‘just a graze’ _ could hurt, and was impressed that Q made it this far with only gritted teeth and swearing. 

A  _ lot _ of swearing. 

Some of the swearing was in languages Bond didn’t even  _ know _ .

Bond had spent the last four days resenting the fact that MI6 had booked them a twin room. (MI6 had a policy of only booking affordable, average accommodation unless an agent’s cover demanded otherwise, and spending the last four days practically on top of each other had been driving Bond mad.) But right now, as he helped Q into their bathroom, the twin room seemed like a blessing. 

“Shirt off, sit down,” Bond directed, pointing to the closed toilet lid. “I’ll get the medical kit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond caught Q blushing as he turned away. 

Now that he came to think about it, Bond had noticed Q blushing whenever they caught each other getting changed. He assumed it was because Q was shy about nudity, and he had tried to give Q as much privacy as possible, but  _ this _ was no time for modesty. 

Selfishly, Bond had relished the glimpses of Q’s body. He would never be cruel enough to catch him out on purpose, but when he  _ did _ catch sight of that pale, lithe torso… Well, Q certainly had nothing to be shy about.

Now, returning to the bathroom with the medical kit in hand, Bond had a clear view of Q’s slim back: tensed in pain, smudged with red. Desire was the last thing on his mind.

Swallowing against the sudden nausea, Bond forced himself to put the kit down. 

“Let me see,” he asked quietly, stupidly afraid that speaking any louder would cause Q more pain. 

Q hissed in a shaky breath and pulled his trembling hand away from the wound. 

“That’s good, Q,” Bond said, aiming for soothing. He had no idea whether he managed it. 

He so rarely needed to be soft; he was out of practice. 

The wound wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It truly was just a minor graze, already starting to clot on its own. 

Bond’s hands shook with the realisation that he had come  _ inches _ away from losing Q. Another few centimetres over, and the bullet would have caused irreparable damage to Q’s organs. 

“Do you want the good news, or the bad news?” he tried to lighten the mood.

“Give it to me straight, Doctor Bond,” Q said in his most deadpan voice. “Am I going to make it?”

Bond laughed, mainly to dispel the tension rather than because Q’s comment had been truly  _ funny _ . He marveled that even now, injured and in pain, Q was trying to make his agent feel better about the situation. 

“Fortunately for us, you won’t be going gently into that good night just yet.” Bond smiled. “You won’t even need stitches.”

Q relaxed slightly. Presumably in the knowledge that Bond wasn’t going to be stabbing him with pointy objects. 

“That was the good news,” Bond continued blithely, “the bad news is that no stitches means no anaesthetic, and antiseptic stings like hell.” 

Q groaned, running a hand over his face, then hissed again as the movement disturbed the wound. 

“Sorry,” muttered Bond, contrite at having caused Q more pain. 

He handed Q two painkillers from the kit, then filled a glass with water and passed it over for Q to swallow the pills. 

“These will kick in soon, but we shouldn’t wait to clean the wound,” Bond murmured apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Q grimaced, “just get it over with.” He took another deep breath, forcibly relaxed his shoulders, and nodded for Bond to get on with it.

Bond cleaned the wound as quickly and thoroughly as he could, wincing every time Q made a pained noise. He was only thankful that there was no sign of any dirt or shrapnel, so he could afford to be gentle.

Having fixed a clean, white dressing over the wound, Bond sat back on his heels, heedless of the usual aching from old injuries.

Q’s eyes were closed as he focused on breathing steadily, lips pressed tightly together against the pain. He looked beautiful, even now. 

Bond touched a hand lightly to Q’s knee.

“All done.” 

Q opened his eyes, and then he stared down at Bond, intently, not saying a word.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Bond murmured as he reached to turn on the faucet, catching Q’s exhausted nod out of the corner of his eye.

He picked up a washcloth from the towel rail next to Q, brushing his shoulder in a wordless gesture of comfort. Q’s lips twitched in a small smile. 

Rubbing the damp washcloth gently around the dressing, Bond tried not to stare at Q. Although he came across as skinny and unassuming in his cardis, Q’s torso was toned and he had the physique of a runner... 

Bond cursed himself for feeling desire when Q was in  _ pain  _ and he was  _ cleaning his blood off _ because  _ Bond got Q shot _ !

When he looked up to rinse the cloth, Q was still staring at him, expression unreadable. Bond glanced away awkwardly, unable to hold Q’s gaze. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Q knew what he had been thinking. 

Instead, he cradled Q’s bloody hand like it was something precious, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on those long, clever fingers as he washed away all traces of red. 

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Q spoke softly but firmly, breaking the silence. “You don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”

Bond scoffed.

“I was on protection detail. It was my job to keep you safe, and  _ I got you shot! _ ” He spoke furiously, though it was obvious to both men that Bond was angry at himself and not Q. 

“I think you’ll find it was a terrorist that shot me,” Q refused to rise to the bait, “and I chose not to get out of the way.”

“But  _ why?”  _ Bond shouted, and threw up his hands _ . _ “I’m the double-oh, I’m the one who’s supposed to get hurt. I’m the one who’s replaceable.” 

Q’s expression darkened.

“James Bond, don’t you  _ dare _ say that ever again,” he spat furiously, “it’s my job as your Quartermaster to stop my agents - to stop  _ you _ \- from getting hurt on my watch. You are  _ not _ replaceable.” 

“I’m just another number,” Bond shrugged, “I know what I signed up for.” 

Q’s eyes flashed in - was it anger?

Before he had time to react, Q grabbed his shoulder and hauled him forward, crashing his lips against Bond’s. 

Every thought he had flew out of his mind. Bond kissed back automatically. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered surprise at the passion he felt behind the kiss. But that thought quickly became lost beneath the feeling of Q’s lips.

They were as warm and soft as he had imagined.Not that he had let himself think about kissing Q often. Just once or twice…

Q pulled back first, maintaining his white-knuckled grip on Bond’s shoulder. 

“You are not replaceable to  _ me _ , James.” 

Well, that was… something? 

Bond’s mind scrambled to put his thoughts in order and failed miserably. 

“Q…” he began, then trailed off, “what?” 

Q’s expression softened, no doubt in response to Bond’s obvious confusion. In any other situation, Bond would berate himself for this display of stupidity, but for now he just… couldn’t compute. 

“Well, 007,” Q started in the exasparated tone he used for explaining basic functions to stupid agents, “when one person likes another person very much, they sometimes give them a kiss. Even when the other person is  _ bloody oblivious _ .” 

Oh.

“Oh,” Bond replied, dumbly. “You… like me?” 

“Well, I  _ did _ keep inviting you to dinner.” Q smiled. “That does generally indicate that I want to spend more time with you.”

“Oh,” Bond repeated. 

Where had all of his words gone? This was… so far beyond what he had imagined. 

He had thought Q just valued him as a friend and good company to share dinner with. 

“So… the coffee, the other night…” he started, hesitantly, “that was…?”

“... intended as a precursor for something rather different than coffee, yes,” Q continued, unabashedly.

“Oh.” 

“James.” Q suddenly looked uncertain. “Is this… ok? If you don’t feel the same way…”

“I do!” Bond blurted his reply before Q could even think about finishing that sentence. He was  _ not _ going to throw this chance away. 

Q beamed. 

“Good.” 

Then Bond did the only thing he could think of, he smiled back, and leaned in for another kiss. Q responded enthusiastically.

“James,” Q sighed out when they pulled apart.

Bond suddenly realised that Q was the only one left who called him James. Even he hardly ever thought of himself as  _ James _ anymore. 

James was the one who had a heart. 

James was the one who fell in love with Vesper and got burned. 

_ Bond _ was the one who pulled the trigger when it was needed, who did whatever it took to get the mission done. 

Maybe it would be worth trying to be  _ James _ again. 

Q’s James, this time. 


End file.
